A Sense Of Romance
by White Rose Withering
Summary: There's a fine line between romanticism and reality. Set after Episode 5, Series 5.


Disclaimer: Spooks and all it's characters belong to Kudos and the BBC. If I did own anything to do with the characters, Harry & Ruth would have got their happy ending

Author's Note: Set after Ruth's departure in Series 5. There's a fine line between romanticism and reality, I hope I managed to get that point across. I'm really proud of this fic, and not just because it's my first in a while. Enjoy reading it, and please don't forget to leave a review.

**A Sense Of Romance**

The words, it seemed, had been drained from the pen clutched tightly in her hand. No matter how many times, or how hard, she tapped its metal nib against rain splattered paper, the ink refused to flow. They had all started like this, her letters. One sentence, another, and then nothing. Thick, black scribbles on a page that, like herself, felt and sounded numb.

She had forgotten how many times she'd sat there. Always in the same corner of a backstreet café, a notepad and pen laid on the table. Her eyes fixed on them as though she were waiting for the pen to rise up, pulled by invisible strings, and start to write for itself. Hours passed like that. She would look up to find herself alone in the darkened café, the owner waiting in the wings for her to leave so that he could lock up for the night. That was another thing she noticed. Time slipped away ever so slowly, squeezing every last drop out of the day, when one wasn't constantly dependent upon it.

No one paid any attention to how she spent her days. So wrapped up in their own lives, no one seemed to notice another human being in pain. She saw them of course. From time to time she would listen in on their conversations, sharing in their jokes and troubles. She watched students from the local college, seduced by the inviting scent of freshly made coffee and a warm escape from the rain, as they poured over art books, covered in paint. It came as no surprise when her trained eye picked_ them_ out of the crowds. Couples that walked hand in hand down the rain streaked road. Their eyes firmly focused on the path before them, a secretive smile on their lips. She wasn't a jealous person by nature, but when she witnessed those tender moments, she allowed herself to envy them. She found it funny that perfect strangers could fill her head with a single thought, as familiar to her now as a favourite melody. _You should be here with me_. Yet another unsaid admission that, weeks later, still brought the prickle of tears to her eyes.

One night, when it had been too warm to sleep comfortably, she had gone out onto the hotel balcony and looked out over the sleeping town. The sky had been inky, to rich a colour to be called black, and with no moon the stars had shone like diamonds. It beauty had been breathtaking. London, though mysterious and chaotic, had never been beautiful in her eyes. A sense of peace washed over her and in that silent moment, she imagined that he was there to share it with her. She remembered the moan that had escaped her lips when she thought of a stolen kiss under that sky.

A waitress setting down a fresh cup of tea brought her out of her reverie. With a sweep of graceful lashes and a world weary sigh, she returned her gaze to the blank page before her. Flexing her fingers, she let the pen dictate its course across the paper. Before her eyes, the black marks started to take shape. She set the pen down and blinked at the sentence neatly scribbled on the notepad. Slowly, the corners of her mouth turned up into a ghost of a smile and with it the numb feeling started feeling more like a dull ache. It would do, for now.

xxx

White light danced across his vision, and for a brief moment he was blind to the harshness of the world. Harry blinked rapidly against the brightness. Slowly blurs became recognisable shapes and once again, normality was restored. Or what was left of it.

He didn't remember drinking all that much last night, though the empty bottles and pounding behind his eyes told him differently. He hadn't touched a drop of alcohol since…He closed his eyes against the thought and tried to push it to the back of his mind, with little success. Ever since _the incident_, as it was now referred to on the grid, Harry had lost patience with the service. Truth be told he needed an escape from the bleakness of it all, and a bottle of scotch had sounded like a good idea at the time.

When he was sure he could stand without stumbling, Harry picked up the mornings mail and closed the front door. With it, the sound of passing cars and busses seemed like a distance memory. The quiet was suffocating.

Harry could take silence as well as the next man but recently it had unnerved him to the point of distraction. He wasn't used to it. Even on the grid, working well into the night, he expected to see that one light refusing to go out, hear the gentle tap of her keyboard. It was in those moments of silence that he couldn't hide from the fact that every day, it was getting harder not hearing from her.

He gave himself a mental shake and walked into the kitchen. He placed the post on the counter and stared accusingly at the cup of sweet tea. _Good for shock_, they always said. There wasn't enough sweet tea or alcohol in the world.

The sound of a bell tinkling brought him back from his thoughts. He let his eyes wander to the source of the interruption and smiled. Fidget sat on the counter. One snow white paw resting lightly on the stack of unopened envelopes. His tail making a circular motion on the faux marble work surface. Harry tickled the fur behind his ears, his gaze never leaving the cat's bright yellow eyes. It had taken time, but finally Fidget trusted him. He was still suspicious, cats always were, but at least he had stopped scratching. There were times though when Harry would catch the feline staring endlessly out of the window, his yellow eyes watching for his beloved mistress.

"You miss her too, don't you?" He said softly. The cat looked up at him briefly before nudging his hand. He couldn't quite keep the smile from his face. They were kindred spirits in that respect. Always hoping that one day, they would see her face again.

With a sigh, Harry pulled mail out from under the cat's paw and started to weed out the bills from the junk mail. He stopped when he saw a flash of something, hidden between two pizza hut flyers. Almost like a…Carefully he pulled it free and examined at it with something close to wonder in his eyes.

A postcard sat lightly in his hands. The picture, a little whether worn, could have once been a vintage masterpiece hanging in a dark corner of a museum. It depicted a small café on the bank of a river. Small umbrellas, painted a shade of red that put his office to shame, stood tall over tables huddled together. Rain drops sparkled on a cobbled path way. It was charming, beautiful in its own way. As if the artist had taken great care to trap the timeless stillness of scene in paint. It spoke of romance in the same way that novels do.

On the back, a handwritten message that made his heart skip a beat. _It appears as though my sense of romance isn't dead after all; I only wish you were here to share it with me._

A small smile played across his face, the pounding behind his eyes seemed to lessen. Perhaps things weren't as bleak as they appeared to be.


End file.
